Page 25 of Bride of Ice
If all went well, the prisoner exchange would be bloodless.
“You may be a bastard,” Rauve said, rubbing doubtfully at his jaw. “But I doubt you’re worthless. Not carrying a blade like that.”
A tapping at the door saved him from having to defend his worthlessness.
It was an apple-cheeked old woman.
“Hallie said I’m to treat his injuries,” she explained to Rauve, showing him her things.
“Burunild,” the guard grunted, motioning her in.
As she crouched beside Colban to dab at his cuts and bruises, she shook her head and clucked her tongue in sympathy.
He wondered if she’d feel the same, knowing he’d earned the injuries in a fair fight and that he’d done just as much damage to Morgan.
While she was finishing, another rap came at the door. A young lass—one he’d seen in the courtyard, giggling with Isabel—had brought him breakfast. She turned pink at once, shoving the tray of frumenty and oatcakes at him, and then wheeling with a delighted squeak as she hurried out the door.
“Witless wench,” the old woman muttered.
The enticing scent of apples and warm oats made his belly rumble.
“Poor lad. Did your laird starve you as well?” the old woman asked with a frown as she gathered her things. As she rose to go, she leaned down and confided in a loud whisper, “You might be better off staying here at Rivenloch. You’d be treated fairly. No one beats a servant here. Faith, half the clan maidens are already twitter-pated o’er you. You’d probably find a wife in no time.”
“That will be enough, Burunild,” Rauve said, ushering her out the door and closing it behind them.
Colban found the woman’s words amusing and thought-provoking. He was being treated more like an honored guest than a hostage. He shook his head, wondering what would happen if a hostage refused to be returned.
After the tender care of his injuries and enjoying a hearty and delicious meal, he sat on the edge of the bed, intending to rest a moment before determining his next course of action.
Hours later, he awoke with a snort. He found himself sprawled in the middle of the plush velvet coverlet with his long legs hanging off the bed. He rose up on his elbows, blinking to clear his vision.
Then he rasped in a startled gasp.
From within the folds of the bedhangings, studying him with the intensity of a hawk on the hunt was a young lad with ice-blond hair.
Chapter 9
“What do you think causes snoring?” the lad asked.
Colban froze, as baffled by the question as he was by the lad, who’d seemed to appear out of nowhere.
“Is it the lungs, collapsed in sleep, gasping for air?” the lad continued. “Or is it the voice producing the sound, as a means of assuring others that one is still alive?” The lad held a quill over an open ledger, as if he intended to record Colban’s reply.
“What?” He prayed the lad wasn’t some fae being—that Colban’s life didn’t depend on his answer—because he could think of none.
The lad set aside the quill and ledger and emerged then, crawling across the bed to sit cross-legged in front of him. Once out of the shadows, he looked to be an ordinary young man of perhaps ten years, with the same fair hair and blue eyes as Hallie.
“Sometimes the hounds snore,” he said. “But I’ve ne’er heard a snoring mouse. Have you?”
Colban blinked. “Whoareyou? How did you get in here?”
“I’ve been here since you arrived.”
“That’s impossible.”
The lad was taken aback. “You don’t believe me?” Then he furrowed his pale brows. “I suppose there’s little proof for you, since you’ve been only partially conscious most of the day. But I assure you I’ve been here. I’ve been watching you sleep.”
The lad said that as if it were agoodthing.
